


The Dance of the Seasons

by Luthienberen



Series: Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2018 [15]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (Rathbone films)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-13 02:31:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15354267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthienberen/pseuds/Luthienberen
Summary: Holmes and Watson during their retirement together in Sussex.





	The Dance of the Seasons

**Author's Note:**

> Written for July writing prompts. Prompt No.19 Four Seasons. Give us a glimpse of all four seasons with Holmes and Watson.
> 
> This is loosely linked to my fic [“Time Marches On”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15249030), but there is no need to have read that first.

Autumn is ushered in with cold winds off the sea and the leaves turning a shimmering bronze and gold. Walking with Watson arm in arm under the leaves has the effect of a red, brown and gold shower falling gently around them.

Watson in particular enjoys their autumn walks, his stick planted firmly in the ground to support his leg. Holmes notices how his dear friend grips his stick tighter on each walk and how he tries not to lean his weight overly much on Holmes’ arm.

Gazing at Watson, Holmes understood that the seasons had passed without him realising it. The first had been observing Lestrade dying his hair, followed by the revelation of how much their cases now wore upon Watson.

On the heels of that Holmes had planned their retirement and together they filled up a little cosy cottage in the Sussex downs with books, Holmes’ equipment and chatter.

Watson was slowing, so Holmes paused and pretended to be fascinated by a little stream that was bubbling noisily past.

“See the leaves on the surface Watson? I wonder what adventures they are on.”

Watson chuckled at his musing and gladly leant on his arm, stick digging a hole into the soil.

“I say, maybe they are flying south rather late for a dazzling show-down in Casablanca or to catch a ship and onwards to India.”

The folly of such ramblings filled Holmes’ heart to bursting with the affection he felt for his friend. Holmes settled for squeezing Watson’s arm for he couldn’t speak.

“The bees old fellow?”

“They are happy for now, let us fill our lungs with this good fresh air and admire Mother Nature as she prepares for winter.”

Watson smiled and with his assistance continued on at a gentle place.

Holmes meanwhile happily spent time with Watson watching Autumn in its splendour and revelling in the autumn of their lives.

* * *

Winter was harsh. Watson shuddered as he huddled under his blanket. His bedroom was like an ice-bucket for their heating had gone off.

Holmes had been furious and there was fear in his grey eyes whenever he looked at Watson. It was unnerving seeing his friend so anxious over him, but what could he do?

Say this cough was nothing? They both knew better than that, for any cough and chest cold could turn in a heartbeat to tuberculosis or pneumonia. Holmes was determined to  try his best however, so Watson conceded the fight to Holmes.

He was too weary to argue anyway and only insisted Holmes did not do anything rash and catch the same chill.

Perhaps action would help his friend mentally to feel as if he had accomplished something.

“There you are,” murmured Holmes striding in, eyes bright and cheeks flushed. His voice was triumphant and manner imperious when he tenderly helped Watson up and half carried him out of the bedroom.

“I have arranged matters in our small study Watson. Mind the stairs! Ah! Here we are.”

Watson was stunned. A fire was burning in the study grate, the windows were fastened and the desk held tea cups, tea pot and a coffee pot, along with a couple of plates and food: easy to swallow vegetable soup and hearty bread, soft and with butter.

The long narrow sofa that Watson had declared should be there, so that Holmes (or he) might sleep after working in the study, either on writing up case notes or the results of experiments, was now laden with bedding.

The floor next to it was piled with blankets and pillows.

“You shall sleep on the sofa my boy and I on the floor. We shall be cosy in here I think.”

Holmes was so happy and earnest that Watson was overcome with delight at being so cared for by the detective. He loved this man dearly.

“Thank you,” he managed hoarsely.

Holmes nodded and led him fully inside into the study.

* * *

The smell of grown grass and the salt air of a spring day brought the bees buzzing busily among the flowers that blossomed in their garden and the surrounding fields.

Holmes was proud of their efforts and recorded every observation he could, fascinated how different flowers produced different tasting honey.

On a sunny day Watson would join him. His chest was still weak, but he would sit on the chair Holmes placed out for him and read until he was too tired. Then he would watch Holmes in silent pleasure at Holmes’ joy.

Naturally, Holmes had to put on a show every now and then for Watson. It wouldn’t be the same without their old-age theatrics. The most amusing had been the Mystery of the Buttercup Bee.

Said bee seemed rather curious about the buttercup but after buzzing for a while simply flew on. Holmes announced that it had been an act and a secret message passed.

Watson had rolled his eyes, cheeks at last flushed with laughter instead of wan, and asked what sort of message? And so on until lunch time with tea, ginger ale, sandwiches with ham and cucumber and their housekeeper’s delicious orange flavoured sponge.

Afterwards they would take in the sea air, carefully walking down to the sea and allowing their minds to wander back over the years and across the sea to other shores and times.

Finally as the summer day closed they would return to their cottage and Holmes would make Watson comfortable, who in turn would prepare Holmes’ pipe and his own.

Yes, spring was beautiful.

* * *

The honey pot stood untouched on the table.

Next to it was the cooling teapot with empty teacups and saucers.

The toast was cold in the rack and the plates unsullied.

Instead, all the action was in the study where Holmes wept over the still form of his friend Doctor John Watson. He had left him only briefly to lay out their breakfast.

Watson had been so happy that morning, wishing to see more of the sun shining on the bee hives and feel the summer breeze and the heat pressing on his skin.

His tired voice had been joyful and he had said that there was much to do on such a splendid day.

 _“John,”_ whispered Holmes, “What shall I do without you?”

Grieving and crying Holmes could only watch the summer sun rising and casting its rays over his dear friend. He looked so blissful in death. Holmes wondered if Watson was truly dead, for the golden sun gave him the blush of life, while he instead felt hollow inside.

Much later that day, once the housekeeper had succeeded in moving him and sent a telegram for Lestrade, Holmes walked down to the bee hives.

He had to tell the bees, it was tradition after all.

Observing them buzz sadly once he had imparted the terrible news, Holmes knew they too missed John Watson.

The rest of the summer was a blur: burying Watson, having Lestrade – older and greyer – shadowing him with worried eyes and his brother saying goodbye with a finality that confused Holmes, for he was too exhausted to think.

Somehow, deduction wasn’t as amusing without his dear friend beside him.

Yes as summer faded and autumn began to tease at the edges, testing the territory, Holmes too faded.

Then on one summer night as Holmes shut his eyes and abruptly opened them he knew that summer had indeed passed.

For before him spread an infinite wonder.

Endless nature and in the distance cities of awe. Yet the most wonderful and blissful sight was that of Doctor John Watson standing by a bridge over a river. A waterfall tumbled behind him, spraying him with water and foam.

“John!”

“Sherlock!”

Embracing his friend was a pleasure sweeter than any honey Holmes had ever tasted.

“Oh my dear John! I mourned you so.”

Sadness showed in Watson’s eyes. “I know and I am sorry, but it was my time.”

“Then we are..?”

Doctor John Watson smiled mischievously and said, “Yes, but I think we should explore to find out exactly what is here.”

Holmes laughed, the first laugh since that awful summer day.

“My bees?”

“Cared for already and a little bird told them of your passing.”

Holmes decided to investigate the mechanics of that once he had revived in Watson’s company for a bit.

Happy that his bees were secure Holmes linked arms with the man he loved dearly and said to his oldest friend, “Lead on John.”

Thus, began their exploration of the infinite, where the seasons held no fear and the peoples and animals and well…everything, was depthless to experience, to learn and feel and understand.

Holmes thought with great satisfaction and affection, as they began their exploration that all was as it should be.

Holmes and Watson facing the infinite together.


End file.
